


Devil's Food

by soteriophobe



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soteriophobe/pseuds/soteriophobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal loses a bet, and is forced to eat Peter's devilled ham sandwich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Food

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt by kanarek13, at LJ's collarcorner.

 

 

“Come on, Caffrey. You’re welching on me?”

Diana shoots Neal a somewhat murderous look, and he leans back in his chair, shrugging flippantly.

“Hey, I never said I was honest. I’m a criminal, remember?”

“We had a deal _, Neal_. Brooks turned out to be the inside man. I won, fair and square.” Diana frowns at him, looking both annoyed and disappointed. She gestures to a small, foul-smelling package on the bench in front of him.

“Now, eat the sandwich.”

Neal swallows. He can’t believe he could have done something so stupid as to make a bet like this – and with Diana, of all people. Most of the time he had no qualms about weaseling out of these kind of agreements, but he honestly believed that Diana might hurt him if he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain. She could get scary when she was slighted. What was he thinking?

He blames the van – the van, and this stupid stakeout he got dragged along to. Something awful always happens in the van when the stakeout gets too boring, and tonight is no exception. In fact, tonight may be the most awful thing that has happened in the van so far. And that includes the time that one of Peter’s probies got shot on his way out the door.

The bet had seemed innocuous enough. Neal had thought the bank heist they were investigating had been pulled off externally, by a notorious thief and his crew. Peter was sure that the robbers had a man on the inside. Diana had sided with Peter, unwilling to bet against his infamous gut.

Diana’s proposal was simple: If Neal was right, she would accompany him to a surrealism exhibit at The Met (out of his radius). If she and Peter were right? They got to watch Neal eat Peter’s devilled ham sandwich.

Needless to say, Neal had lost the bet. And now he was going to lose his lunch.

Why, in the name of God, had Neal ever been so arrogant as to bet against Peter’s gut? Any gut that could digest devilled ham on a regular basis was obviously a force to be reckoned with.

Neal lifts his gaze from the sandwich to Peter and Diana, who are both looking at him expectantly. He sits back, folding his arms, petulant.

“I don’t know what you two are waiting for. I’m not doing it.”

Peter – who, Neal suspects, wasn’t so eager to sacrifice his dinner to the wager in the first place - sighs, waving a hand at Neal.

“Ahh, fine. Be a bad sport. Means there’s more for me.”

He reaches for his beloved sandwich, but Diana slaps his hand away.

“Boss! No,” she admonishes, and Peter pulls his arm back with a wounded expression. Diana turns to Neal, smirking.

“I tell you what, Caffrey: you take  _one_  bite – a huge bite – and I’ll still go with you to the museum.”

Neal pauses, raising his brows at her. He is tempted.

“…Really?”

She nods, a self-satisfied smile coming over her face. Neal considers for a moment – and then relents. He really wants to see that exhibit.

He reaches for the sandwich. Diana lets out a little whoop of excitement, and Peter looks kind of disappointed.

Neal very gingerly unwraps the paper from the bread. A fetid odor comes wafting toward his face, and he gags, sitting back. He looks at Diana, eyes pleading.

“I don’t-….I mean-….what if I get really sick or something?” He prods at the bread with a finger.

“Hey!” Peter looks at him, offended. “My  _wife_  made that.”

“Under duress, I’m sure.”

Peter’s face twitches, like he wants to argue, but he settles on just bunching his mouth, looking peevishly at his CI.

“Cowboy up and eat the damn sandwich, Neal.”

Diana cackles, and Neal swallows convulsively. He sighs roughly.

“Okay. …Okay. I can do this. I mean, I’ve been tortured by sociopaths before – I’ve been in prison. This can’t be worse than that.”

Trying not to prolong the agony any further, he picks up one half of Peter’s sandwich. Diana holds her breath, staring at him with wide, amused eyes. As an afterthought, Neal pinches his nose with one hand and lifts the sandwich to his lips with the other. Peter rolls his eyes at this.

Neal silently counts down from three, and then takes a huge bite. An unsettling softness fills his mouth, damp bread and mayonnaise and something formerly pig.

He gags, making a pained sound as he forces himself to swallow it, opening his mouth and coughing with disgust the moment that it’s safe to do so.

“Oh god,” he rasps, “I was wrong. It  _was_  worse.”

Frantically, he throws the half-sandwich back down onto the paper and reaches over to grab his three-hour-old cup of latte. He chugs the cold coffee frantically, swishing it around in his mouth and spitting it back into the cup.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Neal!” Peter throws his hands up in disbelief, though his expression is as amused now as it is offended. “What’s wrong with you? It’s delicious!”

“It tastes like hot, wet garbage. On a sunny day.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s great! Food of champions.”

Diana says nothing, laughing harder than he has ever seen her laugh, gasping for breath and spinning slightly in her chair. Neal puts a hand over his mouth and concentrates on not vomiting, voice muffled as he croaks at his handler.

“You’re a sick man, Peter. A sick, perverted man.”

Diana gasps, tears at the corner of her eyes. She shakes her head at Peter, voice thick with laughter.

“I hate to say it Boss, but I’m with Neal on that one. That thing smells  _stank-“_

“Oh, okay, fine-…” Peter cuts Diana off, rolling his eyes so hard that they nearly fall out of his head. Mock-cranky (well, maybe some of it is genuine), he reaches over to grab the remainder of the sandwich.

“-…Fine! I’ll go for a coffee run. I’ll eat it outside. Happy?”

Diana cracks up again with an undignified snort. Neal says nothing, is too busy checking the other coffee cups on the bench, looking for one that’s half-full, desperate to get the taste out of his mouth.

“Bunch of babies.” Peter trudges to the door of the van, grumbling at them as he exits.

Diana wipes at her eyes, reaching into her jacket and pulling out a pack of gum. She offers it to Neal, grinning.

“Nice work, Caffrey. I’ve been trying to get him to take that thing outside for years.”

Neal hastily unwraps three sticks of Doublemint and shoves them into his mouth, nodding emphatically at her.

 

 

*

 

 

Three months later, Neal and Peter are working on a case in his apartment at June’s. It has been a long night of getting nowhere, and he and Peter have all-but-dissolved into simply shooting the shit.

Peter yawns, stretching back in his chair and standing. He nods to Neal.

“You want a beer?”

Neal shakes his head, raising his brows.

“No. You sure  _you_  want another one?” He looks pointedly to the formidable line of bottles already on the table. He’s already pretty sure that he won’t be able to let Peter drive home that night.

Peter gives him a  _look_  and ignores the question, opening the fridge. Neal sighs, yawns, looks down at the case file for the umpteenth time and scratches his nose as he waits for an epiphany to hit him.

“…Neal.” Peter’s voice is suddenly steely, suspicious. His  _“What have you done now?”_  voice.

Neal turns in his chair, blinking at Peter’s back, a thrill of nervousness spiking up his spine. What could Peter have found to incriminate him in…the refrigerator? Did someone plant something in there? Did Neal get distracted and leave his fake passport on top of the cheese or something?

He swallows hard, trying to sound nonplussed. “…Yeah?”

Peter turns, jaw set and mouth bunched. He’s trying to look angry, but there’s a barely-concealed amusement lying just below the surface of his features. He raises his brows, holding something up for Neal to see, voice deadpan.

“You want to explain this?”

In his hand is a small can, wrapped in white paper. A tiny, red imp dances fiendishly across the label, pointing his pitchfork at the words “ _UNDERWOOD PREMIUM QUALITY DEVILLED HAM_.”

…Oh, god. Neal thought he had hidden it in the vegetable drawer.

It takes him a moment to recover from the shock of being found out – he crosses his arms over his chest, shrugging, feigning as much nonchalance as he can.

“I guess you must have left it here, one night.”

“…I never  _brought_  it here, Neal. Mine’s at home.”

“Oh. Well, uh-…oh, hey, maybe it was Byron’s? He seems like he could have been a devilled ham kind of guy.”

Peter stares at him incredulously.

“Byron’s been dead for eight years. This can isn’t even expired, yet.”

Neal swallows, cursing his ignorance – he was under the impression that that stuff would survive a nuclear blast, he didn’t even know it expired. He reaches for a third excuse, wondering what the hell is wrong with him; he’s usually a much better liar than this.

“Maybe, uh-…maybe June bought it in his memory?”

Peter, slightly drunk and more prone to amusement than usual, breaks into a slow grin, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“…All that whining, that big pathetic act – but…you  _liked_  it. Didn’t you?”

Neal chokes a little, shaking his head emphatically, scoffing nervously at the allegation.

“I did not  _like_  it, Peter. I just have…culinary Stockholm Syndrome, okay?! I was traumatized.”

He’s not lying – or, he doesn’t think he is. He really did nearly hurl, that night in the van. It had been so bad, he couldn’t sleep that night, convinced that he could still smell the stuff on him.

A week later, Peter and he had been eating lunch in the agent’s office. Peter had left his sandwich on the desk as he ducked outside to talk to Jones. Neal, against all logic, had felt compelled to take a bite – just to make peace with the horrible experience in the van, be totally sure that he hated it.

The second time, though, it really wasn’t all that bad. Pungent, but kind of…savory, like anchovies or something.

The next day he had been at the market, picking up a few things. As he’d walked past the canned food section, the tiny white-wrapped container had beckoned to him, as though the cartoon devil on the can had perched on his shoulder and begun whispering coercions.  

And so he’d bought some. It had made him feel dirty. But he'd done it again. And again. 

Peter throws his head back and laughs at Neal, his barrel chest shaking with amusement, and he slaps Neal jovially on the back as he swings the refrigerator door closed.

“Come on, Caffrey – look who you’re talkin’ to. There’s no shame here. I get it. It’s tasty!”

“Oh, god.” Neal sinks his face into his hand, cheeks burning with shame.

Peter grins at him – he almost seems…excited, like a kid with a new puppy.

“This is great. Hey, El can make you an extra sandwich for stake-outs, now. She mixes it up real well.” Peter pauses, contemplating the can in his hand.

“Jeeze, I’m gettin’ hungry. …I’m gonna make one now. You want one?”

Neal says nothing, still rubbing a hand over his face, and after a moment Peter shrugs and grabs the loaf of bread on Neal’s counter, beginning to unwrap the can in his hand.

Neal pauses, looks up at him, and furrows his brows. He clears his throat sheepishly.

“Peter…you won’t tell anyone? If Diana or Jones knew…”

Peter studies him a moment, narrowing his eyes, before smirking affectionately, winking.

“It can be our secret.”

Neal nods, and can’t help but allow his lips to twitch into a smile. Shrugging, he stands and grabs a knife, moving to help his partner slice the bread.

 

_\- End -_


End file.
